


un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf (there are ten things you need to know)

by procellous



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, Infection, Snicket Warning Label, Unreliable Narration, bullet wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6867856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philip Hamilton died of an infection 14 hours after the duel, his mother and father at his side. His death was reported to be long and painful, ending in the home of his aunt and uncle, John and Angelica Schuyler Church.</p>
<p>He was nineteen years of age at the time of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf (there are ten things you need to know)

**Author's Note:**

> Just so we're clear: this ends badly for everyone.
> 
> If you would like to read a story with a happy ending, please consider the fabulous _i'll make the world (safe and sound for you)_ by Chrome, which can be found [here.](5380469)

**Un.**

The feeling of a bullet ripping through skin was indescribable. The ball tore through the skin of his hip like it was paper. Philip could feel it break through organs and skin and embed itself in his left arm, but he was detached from it. It was there, to be sure, but unimportant somehow.

The horizon shifted, Eacker replaced by a clouded sky.

The pain returned with a vengeance, searing his flesh and bone. Someone was shouting, too distantly for him to understand the words. He couldn’t feel much of anything besides the burning pain. His vision clouded and faded.

* * *

  **Deux.**

Dad must be so disappointed. Philip couldn’t even defend him properly.

Everything was so hot. Strange, it was a cold November day, hadn’t it been cooler earlier? How long had it been since he aimed his pistol at the sky?

His side burst with agony, sharper than before. A thought occurred to him, flickering briefly amid the torment of his wounds: was this Hell? The heat, the pain; it must be. These dark shapes around him were demons, tormenting him. Of course he had descended into Hell; what other fate lay for a son who so utterly failed his father?

* * *

  **Trois.**

Philip struggled to remain awake. It was like he was swimming in a deep, dark ocean, and beneath the waves was some great and fell beast, waiting for him to slip so that Philip could be devoured.

His ears tingled and his fingers were stiff. The world, once tortuously hot, was now uncomfortably cold and damp, somehow. A warm hand pressed itself against his forehead. It was large and rough with callouses, and Philip recognized it distantly as his father’s. Why was he here—why was his father here? Unless—no.

No, he couldn’t be dead too, not so soon—

* * *

  **Quatre.**

“Pop, I did exactly what you said Pop, I held my head up high,” the words came out unpoetic babble, but he had to tell his father he had tried, “I—” the words stuck in his throat but he had to tell his father he had tried to—to defend their honor, _he had to tell him_ — “Even before we got to ten, I was aiming for the sky,” _Like you told me, please, I’m sorry,_ “I was aiming for the sky.”

His father was talking, and Philip should listen to what he was saying, but it was so _hard_.

* * *

**Cinq.**

His father was gone, and it occurred to Philip that he probably had never been there. Even if his father were to be dead, he wouldn’t have gone to Hell like Philip clearly had. It was just a specter, a torment raised by demons to punish him further. It made sense, such perfect sense. What better torment for a failure of a son than to be visited by an illusion of his father? Truly, this was Hell; none but demons could have created such a torture as to have him visited by the father he had so failed to defend.

* * *

**Six.**

Philip managed to open his eyes, and was greeted by a familiar ceiling. He was in the guest room of Aunt Angelica’s house. That was odd, he could have sworn he had gotten into a duel with Eacker, gotten shot, died, and descended into hell. He tried to sit up, and found he could barely move his head. Blood and sweat had soaked the bed. Asleep next to him was his father.

So he hadn’t died after all. That was nice. Since he wasn’t dead, he couldn’t have gone to Hell, which was very nice. Hell didn’t seem very appealing.

* * *

**Sept.**

The sound of screaming woke Philip, and it took him a moment to realize that he was the one screaming. Something cold and metallic was inside his arm, poking at his veins and muscles. He tried to move away, desperately seeking an escape, but his arm met taught ropes and leather. His father was there, holding his other hand, and repeating something. Philip’s ears buzzed and tingled, and the sound was lost completely in screams. His father’s hand was so warm and solid, but trickles of water crept within their clasped hands and pooled in the palm of his hand.

* * *

**Huit.**

His mother was there. Her small hand cupped Philip’s cheeks, cool wet drops landing on his forehead from the tears running down her face. He wanted to wipe them away, but he couldn’t feel his left arm at all (which was much better than the incredible pain he had been feeling) and his right arm wasn’t cooperating with his efforts to move.

“Stay alive,” she whispered to him. He wanted to reply, but his throat was rough and dry and no words could come out.

_I promise, Mom, I will._ The promise was silent but no less sincere for it.

* * *

**Neuf.**

“Mom, I’m so sorry for forgetting what you taught me.”

“My son.”

“We played piano…”

“I taught you piano…”

“You would put your hands on mine.”

“You changed the melody every time.”

“I would always change the line…”

“Sh, I know, I know.”

“I would always change the line…”

"Sh, I know, I know. Un deux trois quatre cinc six sept huit neuf…”

“Un deux trois quatre cinc six sept huit neuf.”

“Good. Un deux trois quatre cinc six sept huit neuf.”

“Sept huit neuf.”

“Sept huit—”


End file.
